An Artificial Night

“Toby!” said May, delighted. “Where are you?”


“At the Luidaeg’s; I need a ride. Can you take a cab over here? My car’s here, but I can’t drive it right now.”

“I guess. Where did you go? Don’t you know you’re not supposed to leave without telling me? I can’t do my job if I don’t know how to find you!”

My Fetch was yelling at me for ditching her. Surrealism lives. “I’ll keep that in mind, okay? Just get over here.”

“Sure thing, Boss,” she said, and hung up. I shook my head, putting down the receiver as I rose. Doesn’t anyone believe in saying good-bye anymore?

Of course, the fact that May existed meant I’d be saying some final good-byes in the near future. I walked back into the kitchen, almost grateful for my exhaustion. I was too tired to get as upset as I wanted to.

The Luidaeg was leaning against the refrigerator, keeping a wary eye on the children. Most were asleep in piles on the floor; the ones who were still awake were sitting with Helen. Raj, back in feline form, was dozing in her lap. Quentin was still behind Katie, unmoving.

“Well?” said the Luidaeg. “Who did you call?”

“No one,” I said, kneeling to pick up Spike and pressing my face against its thorny side. “Just Death.”





SEVENTEEN



MAY ARRIVED ABOUT HALF AN HOUR LATER. Most San Francisco taxi drivers are barely this side of sane and drive like they expect scouts for the Indy 500 to be hiding on every corner. When you add that to their creatively broken English, you’ve created a taxi experience everyone should have once. Just once. Only once. Unless you’re in such a hurry that you’re considering grabbing the nearest Tylwyth Teg and demanding a ride on a bundle of yarrow twigs, wait for the bus. If that’s too slow for you, you may want to look into the local availability of yarrow twigs, because splinters in your thighs are less upsetting than taking a San Francisco taxi.

The Luidaeg answered the door in her customary fashion: she wrenched it open, snarling, “What do you want?” Then she froze, staring. Nice to see I wasn’t the only one who reacted that way. “What the fu—”

May waved, a grin plastered across her face. “Hi, I’m May. Is Toby here?”

The moment was almost worth the entire situation. I’d never seen the Luidaeg flustered before. It only lasted a few seconds before she narrowed her eyes. “Whatever you are, you’re not Toby.” Her voice was suddenly pitched low, and very dangerous. “You smell wrong. What are you?”

“I should smell wrong—I just doused myself in strawberry eucalyptus bath oil. It’s disgusting!” Her grin broadened. “Is Toby here? She told me to meet her here. This is the right place, isn’t it? You are the Luidaeg, aren’t you? You look like the Luidaeg . . .”

“Yes,” said the Luidaeg, not relaxing. “I am. Now who the hell are you?”

“I already told you.” May blinked, smile fading in confusion. “I’m May Daye.”

The Luidaeg stiffened. I stepped forward, putting my hand on her arm. “Luidaeg, wait.” Somehow I didn’t think letting her gut my Fetch would prevent my impending death. Pity. “She’s my Fetch.”

“What?” The Luidaeg turned to stare at me, eyebrows arching until they almost hit her hairline. There was something in her eyes that looked like fear. Why would the Luidaeg be afraid of my Fetch? May was there for me, not her.